Gloves
by Firestar9mm
Summary: I don't know where this one is going...I plead for feedback...I'm nervous about it.


Gloves  
  
Love makes even the smallest movements fascinating.  
R. Dorothy Wayneright had no way of knowing that. She had not come to terms with such emotions as love, and did not yet know that they existed in her. The only thing she knew was that she could not seem to tear her eyes away from the negotiator as he pulled on his gloves. The smoothness of his motions as he did so made her ache; the sighing of the leather hurt her ears; the fluidity with which he flicked his wrists was delicious, a shining grace.  
How could so simple an act evoke such a response in her?  
She knew nothing of the mechanics of the human body, but some kind of dizziness seemed to be clouding her usually crystal clear mind.  
"Why do you wear those?" she heard herself asking, which was odd because she had not consciously decided to do so.  
"These?" He held up his hands and smirked. "They match my suit."  
She did not understand the humor. "Does it not bother you to touch the world through a curtain?" she asked, being so bold as to take one of his large hands in both her small ones and stroke her fingers lightly over the leather. She cocked her head to one side. "Or perhaps it is just another way of distancing yourself."  
Listening to this conversation as he put tea down, the butler's visible eye twinkled. Two points for the android, while the negotiator had yet to score.  
Roger jerked his hand away with a snarl, fighting a blush. "That's not it. You couldn't possibly understand."  
"Sir, she is trying; that is why she asks," Norman offered as he removed the tray, escaping back into the kitchen before Roger could retort.  
"What are you afraid to feel, Roger Smith?" Dorothy asked, her black eyes shimmering. The negotiator had a sudden, strange feeling that if he moved while looking in them, he'd splash.  
"Believe me," he told her dryly, "when there's something worth feeling, I'll take these off."  
In the kitchen, the butler shook his head and sighed. Halftime score: Android two, Negotiator zero.  
  
It was when playing the piano later that evening that Dorothy began to truly study her hands. Her "father", one Timothy Wayneright, had had the misfortune to die before all could be known about her operation, but she was learning, little by little. It had been he who had given her this body, these hands.  
Every morning she played the piano with an infallible ear and with these hands. They were nicely shaped and very skillful, pretty to look at but strong. Yes, they were very good hands.  
Without these hands there could be no piano music. These hands told her so much. They were part of her link to the world, to what she could learn. They had been a source of pleasure as she had stroked little Perot's fur and felt the rumble of his purr through her being; they had told her this thing was soft, warm, good to hold.  
Why would anyone want to turn such pleasure off? One could not feel the kitten's warmth through a curtain. One could not feel how soft he was.  
There was much she did not understand. She looked once again at her pale fingers depressing keys to make music.  
It was late, she realized with a start, her reverie broken. Roger was late.  
"I say, Miss Dorothy, are you still up?" Norman had come into the room.  
"I think perhaps I shall stay here for a little while, Norman," she replied, not giving him the reason. There was no need; he already knew and understood.  
"As you like it, my dear."  
My dear. She turned her head and puzzled at the endearment-no one had ever called her such a thing, and she did not understand-but let it go. One thing at a time.  
  
It was the middle of the night when he finally returned to the mansion. The job had been a routine negotiation for a simple kidnapping, but he'd had to go quite a bit out of his way and the pickup had been late. His muscles were tense and his eyes weary, and it had seemed to take much longer than usual to get home.  
The sight that greeted his eyes was one he had never thought he'd see--Dorothy was sitting on the piano bench, but the instrument was silent; rather, she was tipped over onto its reflective surface, her arms pillowing her head. Her eyes were shut, synthetic lashes casting shadows on her pale cheeks. Was she...asleep?  
Closer inspection revealed that yes, indeed, she was. Did she need to recharge? Did she need rest, just as humans did? Or was this just one more way of mimicking them?  
Even as he thought it, he realized he'd never seen her look more human. He'd have expected her to look more artificial, doll-like. But her usual dour expression was gone; her face was relaxed in sleep. She looked as if she wanted for nothing.  
Perhaps all her questions were answered in sleep, he thought, reaching a hand to gently smooth her hair. He was unsure of whether or not to leave her--he wasn't sure if he could wake her and it was a cinch he couldn't move her. As she had put it, he could try, but it was doubtful a human would have the strength.  
He would leave her. She'd just be insulted if he--  
Wait a minute, what was she doing out here to begin with?  
It hit him as suddenly and as surely as the moonlight hit the piano, bathing her in cold light. She'd been waiting up for him. She'd been...worried?  
"Dorothy?" he said softly, not expecting an answer and not getting one.  
He looked at her, lost in electronic slumber. Unsure of his actions even as he raised one hand, he removed the glove, feeling the leather sigh as it gave way. He stroked her soft hair, tucking a few strands behind her ear, letting the pads of his fingers caress her pale cheek. He smoothed one of her eyebrows with a finger, marveling at the humanity of her expression and the degree of his own exhaustion...  
She was awake in a nanosecond, her posture once more perfect as she sat up, immediately aware of the presence of someone else in the room. Her expression was utterly blank, but there was a light in the depths of her eyes, like a spark waiting to start a fire.  
They sat like that for a moment, moonlight washing coldly over them, his naked hand still cupping her cheek.  
"Welcome home, Roger," she said evenly, unblinking.  
  
********  
  
I have to wear a pair of gloves for graduation, and when I bought a pair I realized what silly things gloves are. Ergo, this story was born. I plead for feedback; please be constructive. My thanks to my readers, because without readers there would be no writers.  
  
I realize some people use disclaimers on their fics, so here I go jumping on the bandwagon with my own. I don't own The Big O or any of its characters. However, if you choose to sue me I have no money with which to pay you, so I will have to dress up like a maid and work in your home to come to terms. And trust me, you don't want ME noodling around on the piano early in the morning, trying for the fiftieth time to pick out Ryoko's theme from Tenchi Universe. So is it really worth it? I think not.  
  
Have a nice day!  
  
Serena   



End file.
